Stalwart Refugees

Stalwart Refugees is a random encounter in Tales from the Tiers.

Transcript
Through the billowing dirt and rust kicked up by the Edict of Storms, you make out the shifting silhouettes of a small group ahead of you. Appearing lightly armed and armored, the group pulls two carts in their wake. They haven't noticed you through the maelstrom. Allow them to pass by without making your presence known. Hail them. Wary of your presence, the travelers halt when you hail them, and await your approach. Their emaciated faces make it clear that hunger has left them weak. One steps forward to explain that they're scavengers from old Stalwart hoping to trade their haul in exchange for food for their families. A glance at their goods reveals that they're carrying remnants of bronze and iron arms likely scrounged from the Blade Grave. The leader of the group, head bowed deeply in deference, asks if they may pass. They continue past without noticing you, and fade into the wailing winds. Leave them be. Guide them. Proclaim them guilty of treason. Confiscate their goods. You allow the scavengers to continue their journey. They thank you, bowing repeatedly, before picking their way among the rocks. Soon they vanish, every trace of their passing consumed by the howling winds. Escorting the travelers, you lead them through the ragged wastes to the Blade Grave's broken border. They thank you profusely for your assistance, swearing to spread word of your fairness to others in Stalwart. Their leader shows her appreciation with a few pieces of scrap before the group continues their march away from the Edict of Storms. You pronounce their verdict before the travelers realize they're on trial. They are guilty, you proclaim, of unlicensed trade, theft, and unlawful possession or Kyros' iron. The sentence for any one of these crimes is death. The travelers' leader falls to her knees, begging for mercy, even as her companions reveal tarnished and broken blades. Execute them. Deaf to their pleas, you fall on them with weapons drawn, butchering the scavengers with ease. Your attention turns to their goods. Better the metal scraps be in your hands than left here to rust. By your authority as Fatebinder, you declare their goods forfeit to the Court. The travelers glare at you but do not object as you collect their meager wares from their carts. You remind them that a few sacks of scrap is a small price to pay for their lives. Directing them to return home, you leave the travelers to the mercies of the Edict of Storms.